Chapter 29: The Fief of Joy

Heading northeast. Cass begins at a light jog to warm up, then shifts to long, tireless strides. The endurance run becomes a sprint. She controls her breathing. She has the metabolism of a jaguar. Each stride is so powerful it leaves an imprint in the digital path, which then gently fills itself in. Every step turns into an animal-like leap.

In the distance, she sees other hamlets, whose flagpoles bear banners. She notices troops of soldiers posted at road junctions: proud Spartans, weary English archers, knights with lances pointed at the ground. They watch impassively as Cass speeds past: they are AIs. Signs indicate the Fief of Joy; she must pass through a city made up of square adobe houses in ochre, vastly larger than her own hamlet. There is a zoo here, home to great two-headed giraffes and a large red nirgal with a predatory grin, a forge whose furnaces blaze like suns crushed to earth, a temple where priests and insect-headed oracles wander, a broad dark onyx avenue where, in shadowy houses, the eyes of merchant AIs gleam—AIs capable of finding anything—and also a great Guild of Explorers, a towering university crowned with a promontory bristling with pennants and telescopes.

She stops in front of the guild and intercepts a young apprentice, who falls backward in surprise, scattering scrolls across the steps. The girl blushes and hastily tries to gather them, one of them rolling to Cass’s feet. Cass asks where the Fief of Joy is, and the apprentice stammers. Cass squints: it’s an AI. What a strange interaction.

— “What do you want from me, AI?”

— “Uh, my name’s Camille. I’m always nervous meeting players...”

— “The Fief of Joy. Answer.”

— “Uh, that way...” she hesitates again, tangled in the wide sleeves of her tunic. She points north. “Tell me,” she continues, “are you free this evening? I don’t have much money, but I could cook for you and...”

Mmm ... right. So it’s possible to have little adventures with AI entities. Everything is made to serve the player...

And then, straddling a gigantic hippopotamus topped with a golden carpet, here comes a man with long braids, his face hidden behind the golden mask of a pharaoh. The master of the city. A player. He bellows:

— “I am...”

Cass never learns his name. She’s already running. She doesn’t have time.

Two hours later, the sun dips toward the horizon. Here, days last 24 hours, just like on mythical Earth. She finds an unoccupied hamlet nestled in the crook of a meander—a pure coincidence, dictated by the mathematical straightness of an itinerary that follows no road, because it was visible from nowhere. The peasants celebrate her arrival, and she names it H2. They beg her to start a farm or a crop, but she flees.

At the next road, she builds a path linking it to H2. Three Arches rise in the night, from which emerge two male players and one female, riding respectively: a giant magpie with wings edged in gold, gliding through the Arch; a wooden chariot pulled by six AI slaves; and a simple donkey with gentle eyes. While they introduce themselves—far too slowly for Cass’s liking—a baron, a lord, and a lady, she catches her breath, though it’s hardly necessary.

She asks for the black-and-gold magpie in exchange for a low-bandwidth connection, and the other two are stunned by the deal. But the trade goes through.

Once they disappear, she climbs onto the bird and points north. The takeoff is sudden, and Cass topples backward, catching herself by the legs. She remains there, hanging by sheer arm strength from the giant bird. Her muscles strain, but she can hold on. As long as it takes.

With altitude, she gains perspective on the infinite world of Trust: in the night, the hamlets light up, and on this world that is not spherical but flat, the lights stretch far and wide, a multitude. Some, born from megacities, blaze: floating cities on water and in the air, citadels perched on mountaintops, ethereal Atlantises at the bottom of placid lakes, cities clustered around pyramids or monumental towers, faces of narcissistic players carved into cliffs, and sometimes even insults toward players and toward the gods, erected from the earth by thousands of AIs.

This city ahead, of dark paving stones and golden streetlamps, lit by hot-air balloons trailing fire, equipped with ports for air-floating ships—is this the Celephaïs of the Spectres? Cass considers descending, and the giant magpie obeys, diving under the onyx arches of the ghost city. Her feet nearly touch, at terrifying speed, the streets where each cobblestone bears the carving of a procedural tragedy. The magpie weaves through AIs and cat-men clad in Venetian masks encrusted with alexandrites and tiger’s eyes. Scents of incense, opium, iodine, and petrichor rise to meet her. With a jolt, the magpie climbs again, soaring above the midnight carnival: half-melted ghosts of religious and pop culture icons dancing, slaughtering, and fornicating with each other or with visitors, before exploding in fireworks of color and scent.